


True Religion

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Dawn Before the Rest of the World [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Anal Sex, But Dammit Right At The End John Cries, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pillow Talk, Romance, Schmoop, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Sherlock Saves The Day, So As Ever a Bit of Crying, Thought We Might Get One Story In This Series Without Crying, Uncomfortable Conversations, butler!sherlock, gardener!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*<br/>Someone at Stonefield Hall tries to make trouble for buttoned-down butler Sherlock Holmes and the world's most transcendently romantic human, gardener John Watson. Sherlock makes deductions! Later, they have a comically uncomfortable discussion about money. But first: hot, schmoopy sex!</p><p>AU-Stonefield Hall, 1920s Stately Home. Butler!Sherlock/Gardener!John</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Religion

Midsummer, only just gone fully dark, with a fat golden moon burning through the little window open to the breeze, bright enough to turn Sherlock’s skin opalescent. One elegant foot flat on the mattress beside John’s chest; one hand arcing over John’s upper thigh, behind Sherlock’s own back, to balance him; opposite knee rocking up against John’s side, perspiration hot and slick where their skin touched. Sherlock’s face was a lunatic-beautiful mask of abandon; so fully surrendered to pleasure he appeared at once serene and crazed, blissful and agonized, perfectly present and horribly distant. John tried to memorize the planes and angles—an oval for his chin, sharp slash of cheekbone, black circles with a flicker of starlight at the center, negative space and shadow and cross-hatched depths. The mystery in it, though—the miracle of it—was something he was unlikely to ever capture in pencil-lead on paper. This—Sherlock lost to him in a haze of ecstasy, moving above and against and all around him, rocking and sighing and murmuring in the language of angels—was, could only be, true religion.

“Sherlock. My own one.”

Sherlock’s eyes were slow to focus, as if he were recalling himself from some distance: two bright pearls with hearts liquid and black.

“You’re beautiful.”

Sherlock’s body rolled languidly, rippling from hips to sternum to broad, bony shoulders, and he broke forward over John so their wet, open mouths found each other, and settled them both in space and time. Here. Tonight. In this room, this bed, these bodies, this little sanctuary of fervent devotion.

Sherlock rippled up and back, resuming his former posture, and John offered his fingers to be sucked between those kiss-swollen lips, his palm to be slicked with a swipe of that cunning tongue, then took Sherlock in hand, shut his eyes then immediately opened them again because Sherlock—his own Sherlock Holmes, his prize, his treasure—was too exquisite to miss, every pretext and posture shaken off as he reveled, unrepentant, in their shared pleasure. John had never in his life so deeply longed for time to slow, or to stop, to never again hear any sounds but these: the sighs and whispers from Sherlock’s mouth; never again see any vision but of Sherlock’s body moving with languid urgency, Sherlock’s face utterly unguarded; never again feel anything but this: Sherlock’s skin fervid beneath his callused palms, the deep clutching heat of him spiking John’s bliss, the shock of thrumming heat that rolled through John's body in deep waves.

John turned his face, drew up Sherlock’s pillow against his mouth as he groaned, low, and long, and wild. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock’s long fingers twining around and between his own stuttering ones and guiding both hands with gentle intensity. Settling back to himself, John fixed his gaze on Sherlock’s face as he succumbed to his desire, his expression particular only to him: awe, and something like disbelief.

Afterward, with Sherlock’s limbs heavy across John’s chest and legs, John’s fingers lazily tugging apart his waves of hair, stretching and releasing and going back again, John whispered into the moonlit dim of Sherlock’s little room, “When we have a room of our own, in our own little house, I want to hear the sounds you make when there’s no more need to stay quiet. I long for it. I dream of it.”

“The sounds I’ll make? Or the little house?”

“All of it. A lifetime of you. In our little house. Making your sounds.” Sherlock lazed his head on his long neck, drifting gentle kisses across John’s shoulder and jaw and cheek until his face came to rest sharing the pillow, his soft breaths against John’s jaw a cool relief from the over-warm stillness of the summer air.

“Stay tonight,” Sherlock murmured, and settled his arm more tightly around John’s chest, tucking long fingers between the back of John’s ribs and the mattress.

“You don’t mean it,” John whispered back, and stroked his fingers along Sherlock’s back, the edge of his shoulder blade. “I’ll go in a bit. But a while more just like this is too lovely to pass up.”

“I never say things I don’t mean,” Sherlock defended sleepily.

“Not tonight,” John replied. “Soon enough, I’ll wake up to your perfect face every single morning.”

“ _Not_ soon enough,” Sherlock corrected, and hummed, and slid one slender foot down the length of John’s shin, then brushed his toes against John’s ankle.

He was used to it, of course he was, but it was never easy to disentangle himself from Sherlock’s heavily sleeping frame, dress in the dark and retreat into the night. Nonetheless, in the end, John did as he must.

*

“Watson, I don’t know what magic you’ve used on these planting beds but I think this is the best year for roses I’ve seen since I was a young bride.”

“Kind of you to credit me, Madam, but it’s down to you. I’m sure of it.”

“I can’t imagine; I’ve barely made time to attend them in weeks.”

“A bit of benign neglect can be beneficial. Makes’m work a bit harder.”

“Aha! That’s certainly true of women of a certain age.”

“I can’t imagine how you would possibly know that, Madam.”

“Watson, you’re a devil! A charming one, but nevertheless. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

“Shall I cut a few and bring them inside?”

“Oh, not today. We’ll let them enjoy the sun for a bit longer, shall we? They don’t last as long, half-alive in the house.”

“Afternoon, then, Madam.”

“Good afternoon, Watson.”

*

Holmes was in the colonel’s den, noting what bottles needed restocking in the gaudy Oriental drinks cabinet, and how many cigars were wanted to refill the desktop humidor. His eye caught by the distinct motion of a motorcar arriving, Holmes moved to the window to look, mildly annoyed that a visitor had arrived despite the fact none were scheduled. He couldn’t help but thumb through his little book despite his certainty he would find nothing noted. When he raised his eyes again, he caught sight of the county’s chief constable, whose name was Miller and who was roughly Holmes’ contemporary in age—Holmes had known him a little in boyhood, as a bad-tempered bully with a loud voice and seemingly insatiable appetite (hence, in his adulthood he was enormously fat and huffed like a draft horse when required to walk more than a few yards at a time)—and was suspected to have gained his position through family favours and the movement of funds from one hand to another, rather than on account of any real qualification. Miller hefted himself from behind the steering wheel with galumphing non-grace, then planted the stump of a burned-out cigar between his teeth and rather than aiming himself at Stonefield Hall’s famously ornate entrance doors of Scottish maple, began a painfully slow amble toward the stables and hothouse. Holmes blew a frustrated sigh out his nostrils and hurried downstairs, intending to intercept the constable and direct him toward a more orderly arrival.

 “Aha! Is that you, Holmes?” Miller wheezed when Holmes emerged onto the gravel path behind the kitchen. “I see most everyone in the county at church of a Sunday, but somehow always miss you.”

Holmes hummed quietly to himself through tight-pursed lips before replying, quickening his step to close the distance. “Indeed, Chief Constable. I wonder if I can’t persuade you toward the front door so that I may properly announce you.” He gestured toward the front of the house with one hand, then returned it to catch the other behind his back.

“No need, Holmes.” The constable offered a nod of greeting, his massive roll of a neck beneath his chin sliding down to all but hide his collar from view before his head lifted back to center. “I’m looking for the groundskeeper. . .” he reached into the breast pocket of his coat for a card of cheap, thick paper. “Fellow name of—“

“Watson,” Holmes filled in for him. “The gardener here is John Watson.”

“Hm, yes. That’s it. I wonder do you know where on the property I might find him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Holmes replied. “Please do come inside to wait in the parlor, Constable. I’ll have one of the girls bring you tea while I make inquiries and bring Watson to you.” Holmes felt a hot flush of worry flaring beneath his collar and chose his words carefully. “I hope there’s no emergency?”

“No emergency, no, not at all. But it is a matter of some import.” The constable looked Holmes over head to toe, then back again. “I’ll wait in the shade of the yew there, near the drive, but don’t trouble the colonel or the lady of the house with my presence.” He started to turn back the way he came, then seemed to think better of it. He swiped at his sweating, round face with a sloppily-folded handkerchief, then stuffed it inelegantly into the cuff of his coat. “Though when you find this Watson fellow, please do walk with him to see me. What I have to say may be of interest to you, as well.”

Holmes’s stomach lurched upward, then dropped, but he maintained his mild expression and simply said, “Of course. Excuse me and I’ll find him for you.” The chief constable nodded again, then turned to make his way to the wrought iron bench beneath the shade tree. Holmes vaguely worried it might bend beneath his bulk should he sit too quickly, or too long.

A quick inquiry at the stables and a direction to a stable boy to run and fetch Watson back from the shed where the boy reported he was doing repairs and maintenance on his tools, and Sherlock took a moment to dab at his own perspiring upper lip with his handkerchief. It was not the heat of summer, though, which caused him to sweat. He and Watson were law-abiding in every way but one, and though he searched his brain for some other reason the chief constable might wish to speak to them both, he could not help but feel a sharp, sour wash of panic rising in his throat. His legs felt strangely heavy and he walked more slowly than usual back to where Miller sat balanced in the center of the metal bench, knees spread wide and one hand propped hard on his thigh to brace himself. Holmes could hear him breathing from several yards away.

Watson came then, striding purposefully and looking flushed and pink, as if he had been jogging just before coming into view. Holmes looked away, tilted his face toward the sky, wishing for something to fix his gaze upon—a cloud, a bird—so that he would not catch Watson’s eye, warranting the bright-eyed smile he gave away so freely. When he sensed Watson quite close, Sherlock gestured toward him—still keeping his eyes turned away—and said, “Chief Constable Miller, John Watson.” Miller made a great spectacle as he heaved his way to his feet, then tugged down the front of his coat before extending his hand to shake Watson’s proffered one.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Watson said curtly, then, “I hope there’s nothing—not bad news?”

“Hrm. Hard to say just now. Tell me, Watson; are you a married man?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah.”

Holmes gripped his own wrist so hard behind his back he felt his bones grinding together, determinedly presenting a placid face. Watson threw a quick, inquisitive glance at him and Holmes looked away without acknowledging it.

“You’ve been working here at Stonefield a long time?”

“Just over a year. Not long at all.”

The chief constable went back into his breast pocket and pulled out the card he’d consulted earlier. “It seems unlikely, given your profession—hard work, that, outdoors all the time, hatchets and reaping and whatnot, a man’s work—but an accusation was made.”

Watson looked baffled now, his forehead deeply creased, eyes half-shut in a squint.

“An—“ Watson cleared his throat loudly. “What sort of accusation?”

Holmes felt a bit light-headed and side-stepped to position himself more in the shade.

The chief constable cast his eyes about to insure privacy, moved in a bit closer to Watson, but maintained an upright, serious posture. “One of the staff here seems to think he saw you leaving through the kitchen door a few nights back, quite late.”

Watson crossed his arms in front of his chest, and Holmes could see the way he forced his tense shoulders down, affecting a casual attitude.

Watson shrugged. “I admit, Holmes and I have a bit of a routine, sharing a glass of port and conversation nearly every evening, sometimes quite late into the night.”

Miller turned vaguely toward Holmes. “Is that so.”

Holmes fought an urge to blather fanciful excuses why Watson should be leaving his room in the small hours by saying only, “It’s true; we have many shared interests and little time to pass in the daylight hours. A _digestif_ and a chat in good company is always welcome at day’s end.”

Miller pinned Watson with his gaze. “Half-three in the morning? That’s quite late for a working man to still be awake.”

“I don’t sleep well since the war,” Watson said plainly, and Holmes could feel the simple genius of it soften his pounding heart.

“Walk with me, gentlemen,” Miller intoned, and started toward the drive, nearer his road-dust-covered motorcar. Holmes at last looked at Watson, as they both followed along behind the constable. Watson offered what was likely meant to be a reassuring smile, but the tightness at the corners of his mouth gave him away.

The constable leaned through the open window of the auto and drew out a notebook, flipped pages until he found what he wanted. “Says here a footman in the employ of Stonefield Hall had occasion Wednesday last to be walking past the window of the butler’s room. As the evening was warm, the window was open, and in passing he caught sight of the butler’s face rather florid and contorted in a particular manner, which the footman found surprising as the butler is an unmarried man. Though he could not see from his vantage point whether the butler—that’s you, Holmes—“ he added pointlessly, as if Holmes was unaware of his own position, “was alone in his room, but he assumed not, given what he glimpsed through the window. The footman moved on, made ready for sleep, and at nearly half-three as he moved to the window of his own room to open the curtains for the breeze, he saw the gardener—looking furtive, or even ashamed—crossing the yard from the kitchen door toward the cottage that is his usual bunk.”

Holmes’s rage was pulsating in his chest, hot as a blast furnace. The footman in question was almost certainly Thomas, who had in the past taken several opportunities to make implications about the nature of Holmes’s relationship with Watson, accompanied by tone and expression that made clear his distaste. What benefit it would serve him to go to the police, Holmes could not, in his current state of heart-pounding, clenched fist indignation, discern.

Watson, though, was steady-voiced, square-shouldered, and even let go a dismissive laugh.

“Obviously, the footman is mistaken. Probably reeling back drunk from a late-night card game with the stablemen. As I said, Holmes and I are chums, pass time together after supper quite regularly, but this accusation is ludicrous.” Watson glanced sideways at Holmes, his body language and face carefully arranged to convey a _Can you believe this nonsense?_ attitude, but Holmes knew him well enough to see the pain in Watson’s eyes at having to disavow him. What was absent was any sign of fear; Watson was unfailingly, remarkably brave. In contrast, Holmes’s fury was quickly dissolving into abject terror that one or both them may be on the momentary verge of being arrested, humiliated, and ruined.

Watson quickly added with an exaggeratedly puzzled tone, “And I have to wonder what, precisely, a furtive or—what word did you use? ‘ashamed’?—manner of walking looks like? Whoever reported this has a fertile imagination.”

Miller flipped his notebook shut and reached once more into his cuff for his stained and rumpled handkerchief, lifted his hat a few inches off his head to swipe sweat from his brow. He hummed with something like skepticism.

“Chief Constable,” Holmes said then, “I find the implication here that Watson is anything less than completely upstanding to be utterly repugnant. He sustained a significant wound fighting in the defense of king and country. In every dealing he is honest and plain-spoken, and his work ethic is unquestionably one of the best I have encountered in my years at Stonefield.”

Watson looked appropriately grateful for Holmes having come to the defense of his character.

“He buried a child and _a wife_ , for god’s sake. This accusation deeply offends me, sir, and it should you as well. To question the integrity of such a man is frankly outrageous.”

Miller appeared to consider what Holmes had said, eyeing up Watson carefully.

“I asked if you were married,” he pointed out.

Watson shrugged slightly, and looked wistful. “I was once, but the great flu took her. She was a good woman, my Jane. She was lovely. God rest her.”

“Hrm.”

Holmes’s gaze settled on the chief constable’s motorcar and a shock jolted through him.

“I wonder, Chief Constable,” he said, in a sturdy, clear tone; Holmes was gathering his bearings. “Has there been any progress toward finding out who it was caused the death of Mr Eames the elder, those weeks ago?”

Miller coughed suddenly into his fist, shook his head. “Poor old fellow,” he said. “Confused in his old age. Took a meander along the road without his nurse. Terrible way to go. A real tragedy.”

Watson looked questioningly at Holmes, who barely took note, his attention focused tightly on the sweating constable, shifting his bulk from one foot to the other, suddenly quite taken with a fit of coughing.

“It’s lucky you drove up and found him,” Holmes said seriously. “I wonder, was he still alive when you happened on that awful scene?”

Miller’s eyes narrowed a bit, but he managed a slight, sad shrug. “Ah, no, poor man was well beyond help, himself on one side of the road in quite an unnatural pose, his shoes still on the other side.”

“And the fiend whose auto struck him with such violence simply drove off and left him?” Holmes asked, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “How cowardly. How craven.”

“It’s possible the driver was in shock,” the chief constable volunteered. “Or drunk, speeding along recklessly. Inquiries were made throughout the county, up and down the road for miles; sadly there was no information volunteered that was useful in apprehending whoever ended Mr Eames’s life in such sad fashion. We may never know.”

Watson shook his head. “A real shame,” he said quietly.

Holmes pressed on, moving closer to the automobile. “It would seem to me, Chief Constable, that there can’t be more than a dozen motorcars on the local estates. It wouldn’t take you or a few of your men more than a single day to inspect each of them for evidence of having been in an accident: dents to the metal, or left-behind scraps of cloth—even tiny threads—from Mr Eames’s clothing.” Holmes leaned down to look closely at the top of one tire. “Or something left on the tires—strands of hair, or a bit of blood.” Holmes jerked himself erect, hands clasped more loosely now behind his back, and stared pointedly at Miller. “ _Was_ there much blood there at the scene of his death, I wonder?”

“How morbid,” Miller replied. After a brief pause, he said, “There was some blood, yes, of course.”

“Then perhaps your men could find traces of it on the villain’s auto.”

“You’ll put me out of a job, Holmes!” the chief constable protested with a loud guffaw that sounded patently false.

Holmes demurred, looking at the ground briefly, as if humble. “Certainly, that is not my intention. I only wish for justice for the memory of that fine gentleman.” He gave a quick sigh that seemed to punctuate the end of the discussion and looked up again at the chief constable. “What put me in mind of it is merely the sight of your police car, here. The sun was glinting off the bonnet such that my eye was drawn to these flakes of rust.” Holmes had fully regained himself, absolutely certain he had wrested control of the situation from the sausage-fingered hands of the wheezing constable. He dragged the tips of two long fingers across the bonnet’s edge, catching up dry bits the colour of dead leaves between fingertips and thumb, briefly lifted his fingers toward his nose and caught a faint whiff of salty copper, then extended his hand first toward Watson, who leaned to look, and at last held his fingertips beneath Miller’s rolls of chin. There was a moment when Miller caught Holmes’s gaze and an understanding of what Holmes was showing him, what Holmes had deduced, passed between them. Holmes withdrew his hand and wiped it clean with his own handkerchief, which he then shook vigorously before refolding it and sliding it into his pocket.

“I imagine a bucket of soap and water and perhaps a bit of elbow grease is all that would be needed to wash it away,” Holmes offered, clasping his wrist behind his back once more, this time in his typically comfortable manner, shoulders settling, chest high. “But I would venture it should be attended to with haste.”

The chief constable coughed into his fist, and tugged down the front of his coat.

“Indeed,” he wheezed. “Indeed, I’ll have one of my men take it on as soon as I return.” He coughed loudly once more. “Watson, since Holmes is an old chum of mine from our boyhood, I will trust his judgment of your character. If he vouches for you, I think we can dismiss this nonsense from the footman. As you say, it’s likely he was in high spirits himself, out carousing at an hour when reasonable people are long asleep. Doubtless he was mistaken in his interpretation of what he thinks he saw.”

“Yes,” was all Watson could manage. He was staring at Holmes with baffled amusement, but shook off the spell and offered his hand for the chief constable to shake. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“My apologies for the misunderstanding,” the chief constable offered, then coughed, then turned to go. Holmes was planted so that Miller was forced to pass between him and the bonnet of the car. Once he had trundled himself behind the wheel, he reversed quite far down the drive before turning around and driving off the property.

A quick glance about them, and John exhaled heavily through his nostrils, his chest collapsing forward. “Sherlock.”

“Nevermind it. Miller’s a glutton in every sense; I’ve suspected from the first that it was him that struck down the senior Mr Eames, driving too fast, at night, full of cheap liquour.”

“If you hadn’t noticed the blood there. . .” The colour was rapidly draining from John’s face, and he bent, groping for the nearby bench, and folded onto it, dug his fingertips in deep circles at his temples. “God, my knees are water. The footman?”

“I imagine Thomas,” Sherlock offered. “That sneer of his, the snickering behind his hand.”

John looked up then, and his forehead was heavily creased with concern. He shook his head, raised one hand in a helpless gesture. “I need six months, at least, before I have the money saved. Another month or two to build the cottage. . .” He looked defeated.

Sherlock offered, “I have savings. Perhaps it would make up the difference, and hurry things along.”

“No,” John protested immediately. “I can’t let you—“

“It’s only money, John; I’ve no use for it.” Sherlock adjusted his buttonhole: black-eyed-susan, with its sunny yellow petals offset by a few tiny, deep-red trillium blossoms. “We’ll talk about it after supper, I’ll bring my notebook; we’ll see if we can’t make the maths work in our favour.”

John still looked skeptical, but he nodded. He bit his lip, pierced Sherlock with his bright blue gaze, and said plainly, “I just have to get you away from here. And the sooner, the better.”

*

“Sir, I wonder if I might begin to make inquiries about replacing one of the footmen.”

“Oh? And why should that be needed, Holmes?”

“There is one who seems, I’m sorry to say, irredeemable. He has an insubordinate attitude generally, and now I have heard from reliable sources that he passes late nights in ill-advised avocations. Gambling. Drinking.”

“Har! Bit of a thorn in your side, then, Holmes!”

“Ah, yes, sir, you read the situation quite correctly.”

“I trust the staff to you, Holmes. You do as needs must to keep things running like clockwork—only mind the wages. I don’t need to tell you. You know.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“Find your new man and sack the one that’s troubling you; A broken spoke weakens the entire wheel.”

“Indeed, sir. I agree.”

*

The girls had finished with the supper dishes and bid them good evening; Sherlock and John sat in their usual spots at the big table—Sherlock at its head, John at his right hand. Sherlock tipped milk into their tea cups and drew his little book out of his coat, set it on the table and lay his long hand upon it as he stirred.

“It was ages, this afternoon, before I was steady on my feet,” John said, and blew across the tea in his saucer before tilting it to his lips.

Sherlock nodded just slightly, but said, “We’re fine.”

“You were brilliant, by the way.”

Sherlock raised his cup to softly smiling lips. Once the cup had quietly clicked back onto its saucer, he moved to open his book, paging through toward the back until he found the notes he wanted. “I assume you have a figure in mind, for the lease of the land, the materials for the cottage, the equipment and plants and trees and so forth,” he prompted, all business. Discussion of salaries and savings and the price of a new pair of muck boots were all topics Sherlock found distasteful, ranking in a list of impolite conversation topics right along with religion and politics. Better, he thought, to imagine he and John were partnering in a business endeavour, the profits of which would be measured in bed sheets and buttonholes, unhurried conversation and each man awakening in the same place he had fallen asleep.

John cleared his throat, folded his hands on the table like a boy in a schoolroom. “Yes, of course. There’s a down payment on the lease-to-own arrangement for the land, which I can cover. I can get fruit trees—apples and pears, at least—from the orchard for the price of my own labor to transplant them, many as I like, I’m told; they’re selling off the orchard to some big outfit to build on. But that’s if I can get the finances secure in time; they’ll be knocking down the orchard after the fall harvest.”

“You’ll need tools? A tractor?” Sherlock ventured. It was clear to John that Sherlock had never given a moment’s thought to what equipment might be used for such a scheme. “And I imagine you’d want to hire a hand or two?”

John couldn’t repress a smile. “You perfect darling.”

“What?” Sherlock looked annoyed at John interrupting their business meeting for sweet nothings.

“You’ve _no idea_.” John patted the back of Sherlock’s hand briefly, then withdrew. “You have not the _slightest_ idea how a man would transplant a few dozen trees.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were flushing lightly, starting at his jaw and ears, upward toward his cheekbones. “Well, why on earth would I? Let’s keep our minds on the task at hand, please.”

“Oh.” John grinned, sitting up straight in his chair and refolding his hands. “Yes, Mr Holmes.”

“Enough of that, thank you.”

John went on grinning. Sherlock frowned and sipped his tea. “As is—apparently—obvious, I am not well-versed in the specifics of such a transaction.” He raised his gaze from the book, pale eyes staring into John’s. “Everything I have is yours; I hope this can help.” He laid his finger beneath a row of figures he’d inked in his upright, elegant handwriting, and slid the book sideways toward John.

John cleared his throat and glanced down at the numbers. He shouted a quick laugh, and collapsed back against his chair, shaking his head.

“Is that--?!” he started. Too loudly, he realized, and so he lowered his voice as he repeated, “Is that your _bank balance_?”

Sherlock was still frowning, clearly unsure what was funny. “Yes.”

“Have you never spent a penny of your wages?” John went on, wide smile irrepressible.

“I have few needs, John. How on earth would you have me spend it? I paid the undertaker to bury my mother those years ago. . .” His eyebrows shrugged.

John laughed again; his body was tingling with a weird, delicious blend of amazement and relief. Heedless that they were in the kitchen—when was the last time anyone had passed through even for a glass of water after supper was dispensed with?—John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pressed his bony knuckles hard against smiling lips, allowing a nearly comical _smack_ of his lips. Sherlock let him, but reclaimed his hand directly. John couldn’t stop laughing. He scrubbed both hands over his face, chin to forehead, up the wrong way through his hair, and down again.

“What on earth is so funny?” Sherlock demanded, his mild confusion edging toward true annoyance at not being in on the joke. He shut his book, laid his hand heavily upon it, and slid it toward him.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, with a shake of his head. “You’re wealthy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Not like them,” John tipped his chin upward, indicating the family above stairs. “But many’s a man worked his whole life and never amassed anywhere near that figure you just showed me.”

“Then there’s enough to sort out this business of the land.”

“One-tenth of that is more than enough to complement what I’ve managed to sock away.”

Sherlock reached for his pipe, clamped it with a loud click between his teeth. “You’re exaggerating, surely.”

“I’m not.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, and he stroked the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully. “In that case,” he ventured after a lengthy pause, striking a match. “I want to give half.”

“Half?” John asked.

“Half of what’s needed. For the land, the house, the trees—“

“Don’t forget the tractor.” John’s eyes were sparkling.

“Yes, make it two. Half a dozen,” Sherlock teased, his tone never varying from his usual seriousness. “There’s no reason you should start our new life penniless; we’ll each contribute half and that will leave you some of your savings.”

John leaned his elbow on the tabletop, hid his mouth behind his hand, his forehead crumpling.

“Are you quite all right?” Sherlock asked between the puffs of breath needed to light his pipe.

“Our new life. That’s what you just said, _our_ new life.”

Sherlock’s face softened as he took his pipe from his mouth and held it aside, to accommodate a spreading smile.

John lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “My own one,” he breathed, his expression so much like relief. “Put out your pipe; I’m taking you to bed.”

 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> *  
> I'm back on tumblr (sort of) at the same URL, fuckyeahfightlock. Also, now twatting the twoots (or whatever the hell) on twitter @FicAuthorPoppy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] True Religion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5239442) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil)




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